


Change All My Plans

by sabinelagrande



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Case Fic, Clint Is a Dick, Despite Being Competent Secret Agents, F/M, Foot Chases, Getting Back Together, Grant Ward Is a Hawkeye Fanboy, Grown Men Being Idiots, I Got Carried Away With the Chases Maybe, M/M, Melinda May Is Sick of Your Shit, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Not s01e17 Turn Turn Turn Compliant, Phil is a dick, Skye Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and his team are chasing a terrorist around the world. Clint is taking a nap. Phil would rather let him sleep, but you can't always get what you want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change All My Plans

**Author's Note:**

> A timeline note: Because of when I wrote this (Big Bangs aren't known for their brevity), it disregards Hawkeye canon after Annual #1, Agents of SHIELD canon after The Well, and the entirety of The Winter Soldier. Just go with it.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, dizmo and shadowen, who are as patient and long-suffering as I could possibly hope for. Make sure to check out kultiras's excellent matching art as well!

Clint was drunk in his boxer shorts when SHIELD came for him.

Clint wasn't AWOL. He had specific permission to be away from base. As a specialist he had certain rights and responsibilities, and one of those rights was the right to take time off. So he walked into Commander Hill's office, filled out a form, and just like that, he was officially on vacation.

It was all suspiciously easy.

Suspicious or not, this was definitely the longest uninterrupted stretch of downtime Clint had ever taken- uninterrupted in the sense that it was only marred by minor fights with mafiosos of indeterminate national origin. It was pretty nice, actually, relaxing, a nice break from the hectic crush of SHIELD. So far he had made use of his downtime to:

1\. Get back together with old girlfriend;  
2\. Cheat on old girlfriend;  
3\. Break up with old girlfriend, again;  
4\. Hang out with Kate;  
5\. Have fights with Kate;  
6\. Sit by while Kate moved to the other side of the country with his dog;  
7\. Mourn Phil;  
8\. Find out Phil wasn't dead;  
9\. Realize Phil was never going to call, alive or not;  
10\. Mope because of items 1-9.

So, y'know. A pretty productive vacation so far.

He was drunk because of item 10 and in his boxers because it was three PM on a Saturday, which, as far as Clint was concerned, was a perfectly good day and time for the carefree, indulgent pastime of day drinking. He hadn't been indulging in it much lately, but it didn't seem like such a bad plan, not at the moment.

He had actually started to doze off- maybe he wasn't really cut out for the sport after all- when there was a knock at his door. Clint considered the door carefully. If somebody needed him to fix something, they'd almost certainly call him first. There was nothing desperate about the knocking, nothing that suggested that the person on the other side was in trouble. If it was the police, they'd eventually just knock the door down, saving him the effort of getting up.

Clint rolled over and shut his eyes.

Not five minutes later, his window opened. Clint jolted awake, reaching for the baseball bat under the couch.

"Agent Barton," Hill said, climbing in through the window. "We need you."

"How soon?" Clint said groggily, and Hill just raised an eyebrow at him, as if to suggest that she hadn't just broken into his house for her health. "Can I put on some pants first?"

"Please," she said, a little icily. They'd never been the best of friends or anything, but she'd never really gotten over him trying to kill her while he was under Loki's power. It was a little petty of her, as far as Clint was concerned. He'd have forgiven her if the roles were reversed, but he was a pretty forgiving person; he even forgave her for not forgiving him.

An hour later, he was standing in Director Fury's office at HQ, shuffling his feet while he waited for Fury to acknowledge him. He was still pretty buzzed and pretty uncomfortable; he imagined this was probably what it was like to get busted by the principal, even though he really hadn't done anything wrong.

"Agent Barton," Fury said, turning towards him, not even pretending he hadn't been making Clint wait just to make him sweat. "Did you have a nice vacation?"

If it were anyone else, Clint would have rolled his eyes. "Pretty good so far, sir," he said instead. "Kinda hoping to get back to it soon."

"No can do," Fury said. "You're back on active duty, effective tomorrow."

Clint frowned unhappily. "With all due respect, sir-"

"Why do people always say that just before they're going to be disrespectful?" Fury asked rhetorically. He waved a hand. "Go ahead anyway."

"I was told I wouldn't have to come back except if there was a critical threat," Clint said, maybe a little petulantly.

"Here's a critical threat for you," Fury said. "If you don't shut up and follow orders, I'm going to take you to the Helicarrier and drop you into the ocean."

Clint didn't gulp, but he came close. "Understood, sir."

"I need you on this, Barton," Fury told him. "I have a team dealing with a difficult situation, and they need backup." Fury passed him a file, and Clint opened it.

Clint stared at it awhile, unsure what to say. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, but he didn't know any way to express it that wouldn't end with Fury making good on his Helicarrier threat.

"Director Fury," Clint said carefully. "If I may-"

"You may not," Fury said. "You and Coulson work well together." Fury glared at him coldly. "You and Coulson _better_ work well together."

"I don't think this is a good idea, sir," Clint said.

"That's too damn bad," Fury said. "Coulson needs assistance, and you fit all the specifications. That supersedes your right to drink beer in your underwear."

"Sir," Clint said. "I have some personal reservations-"

"Get the fuck over it, Barton," Fury said. "You're grown-ass men. Work it out."

"Yes, sir," Clint said. It was rapidly becoming clear that he wasn't getting out of this one. He was unfortunately just a little too good of an agent to fake an injury or manufacture an excuse, not when Fury was this insistent on it.

"Don't bring the dog," Fury told him. "That plane has new furniture."

Clint scratched the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably. "It's kinda not my dog anymore."

"Good," Fury said. He snorted. "Pizza Dog. Don't you know you're not supposed to feed a dog tomatoes?"

It wasn't worth asking how Fury knew his dog's nickname; it would honestly be weirder if he didn't. "Actually, sir, it's green tomatoes and tomato plants-"

"I don't have time to get into canine dietary restrictions with you, Barton," Fury said. "Wheels up tomorrow at 0600." With that he turned away, muttering something about onions and garlic under his breath, and Clint knew he was dismissed.

So that was fun.

\--

It was sort of inevitable that they were going to call in Clint. Phil knew about thirty seconds after he submitted the official request for additional assistance, suddenly and belatedly realizing that he'd just described Clint down to the last detail, with a strong emphasis on how important the mission was and how much they needed that particular skillset. 

He really didn't care to examine what that said about him, that he'd been asked to come up with exactly what he needed and automatically described Clint.

"Shit," Phil said, sighing. It wasn't as if he'd been expecting to go the rest of his life without seeing Clint again; he could have just used a little more time. He especially didn't want to open that particular can of worms right now, not when their team was facing down such a serious threat.

They were leaving Accra, where the target had slipped past them again; they were getting closer and closer, but this wasn't their lucky day. Phil was good at judging people, or he wouldn't be in this position, but it didn't take any skill to realize it was starting to impact the team's morale, being close so many times just to miss it again. 

As much as he was dreading it for himself, at least the news of Clint joining the team went over well with the rest of them. Fitz and Simmons were practically salivating over the chance to upgrade Clint's weaponry, Skye was starstruck, and Ward, well, Ward was too, though he was trying to play it off as mild excitement over the possibility to work with someone he respected. Rather predictably, it wasn't working very well for him.

Melinda he wasn't as sure about.

Melinda had taken the news about how he expected her to take it: no discernible reaction other than the acknowledgement of information received. It was, provisionally, a good sign; if she'd hated the idea, she would have made it very clear. However, Melinda's expressions of everything between moderate displeasure and cautious optimism were all really the same expression.

It had been several hours since Phil had briefed the team on Clint's arrival; unsurprisingly, Melinda was back in the cockpit, monitoring their progress and generally ignoring all of humanity.

"Any trouble?" Phil asked. It was funny how he could tell she was raising her eyebrow at him without her actually turning around. "Of course not." He put his forearms on the back of the co-pilot's seat, clasping his hands together and leaning forward, looking out through the windshield. "How much do you know about Barton?" Phil asked.

"You're doing that thing where you're trying to sound casual and failing," Melinda said, not looking at him.

"A question's a question," he said, a little embarrassed, but he was long past feeling offended by her brusque manner. "Casual or not."

"Barton was after my time," Melinda said, shrugging.

"Your time is now," Phil told her.

"You sound like a motivational poster," she replied. "Barton was during my period of-" She paused. "Relative inactivity. I only know what's in his file."

Phil was about to ask her how she'd managed to work at SHIELD and not pick up gossip about him, but then he remembered who he was talking to. "I don't know if you're going to like him," Phil said delicately. Melinda gave another shrug, one that he recognized as a clear statement of 'Don't start none, won't be none'.

"I thought you were done with the Avengers," Melinda said disapprovingly.

"Me too," Phil said. "Apparently it didn't stick."

"I didn't think the Avengers were going to stick," she told him.

"You and everyone else," he said; he didn't think she'd meant anything by it, but it made his chest hurt anyway. He straightened, careful of the low ceiling. "I'll leave you to it."

"ETA is 0315 EST," she told him.

"Thanks," he said, leaving the cockpit. He wasn't any closer to knowing Melinda's mind than he'd been before. He wasn't any closer to knowing anything about any of it.

\--

There wasn't a whole lot to do to get ready, past sobering up and packing his uniforms. Clint didn't like to leave the apartment building unattended, but there were people he could trust to take care of it; he knew a retired SHIELD agent or two who would jump at the chance to put the fear of god into thugs in tracksuits who only sort of spoke English. Arranging that took about two hours, and catching up on what he'd missed of Dog Cops took another two, and after that, he was pretty much just twiddling his thumbs.

He hadn't known Natasha was back in New York, but around four-thirty the next morning she showed up to collect him- which was of course before he was ready but well after he'd meant to get up.

"You're headed out into the field with Coulson?" she said, as they drove towards HQ.

"Yep," he said.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asked.

"Nope," he replied.

Natasha nodded, and that was the end of that.

Fussing over his gear took pretty much all the time he had before takeoff. He couldn't say that he was exactly looking forward to it. He hadn't laid eyes on Phil since before New York, not since the morning before that awful night, the one where Loki showed up and fucked up pretty much everything in Clint's life.

_The sun wasn't even up; Clint actually had no way of knowing whether that was true or not, but he was pretty confident. He wasn't on duty for a while yet, but it was probably better to be seen coming out of his own room around that time. SHIELD didn't have frat regs, possibly because Howard Stark had been involved in its founding, possibly because if they did they'd never have time to do anything but enforce frat regs, but that didn't mean he or Phil had any interest in shouting it from the rooftops._

_Especially when Clint was about ninety percent sure that it would eventually blow up in his face._

_Phil had still been asleep when Clint rolled out of bed, but he was awake by the time Clint was finished getting dressed, lying on his side with his head propped up on his hand. "What's on tap for today?" Phil asked._

_"You'd know better than me," Clint said. "Probably still babysitting Selvig." He shook his head. "I don't like it. Playing watchdog is fine- I mean the rest of it. I don't like the idea of suspicious blue cubes with unlimited power. Something is off about it."_

_Phil frowned, looking concerned. "Maybe you should talk to Fury or Selvig."_

_Clint shrugged. "I'm just a set of eyes and a bow. Doesn't matter much what I think."_

_"You're more than that to me," Phil said, "and you're more than that to the Director. Selvig, not so sure. But if you've got concerns, you need to make sure they're heard."_

_"I'll give it a shot," Clint said, tying his boots before going over to give Phil a kiss. "Stop being lazy and put your suit on."_

_"Five more minutes, Mom," Phil said, putting his head back on his pillow, and Clint just laughed at him._

Clint had warned Fury, but, in the end, it hadn't made a difference.

Clint steeled himself, walking through the doors to the hangar. The Bus was as impressive as everybody said it was, though Clint was just really never going to understand why SHIELD had to put its logo on everything. Phil was standing on the ramp, between a black SUV and a vintage car; he looked perfectly normal, perfectly fine, like nothing had happened, like he hadn't ever fucking been _dead_.

Clint pointedly ignored the way his heart leapt into his throat.

"Agent Barton," Phil said as Clint approached, with the same mild, vaguely pleasant smile he gave everyone. There was a time when Clint used to like it when Phil gave him that smile, the secrecy of it, the feeling of so much behind it, things that only Clint could see.

There was nothing behind it today.

"Agent Coulson," Clint said, though it took effort. "You're looking less dead."

"Working on staying that way," Phil said, smiling wryly. He held out a hand, indicating the man beside him. Christ, Phil was a suit, but this guy was a _suit_. Clint had never seen a person who looked more like an agent in his entire life. He was several inches taller than Phil, and he had that model-handsome face, those broad shoulders; he had a general look of smooth, calm readiness, like at any moment he could pull a gun or offer Clint a martini- stirred, not shaken, because he could probably jump behind the bar and make it himself, bartender-perfect.

Did they order him from a catalog?

"This is Agent Ward," Phil said, and Clint nodded to him. "You'll meet the rest of the team shortly, but it'll have to be in the air. I'm afraid we're running a little behind."

"Sounds good," Clint said, hoisting his bag back over his shoulder. "Just show me where to put this."

"I'll leave you to it," Phil said, walking away to talk to the ground crew. As Phil passed, they didn't touch, and Clint didn't look back at him.

"This way, Agent Barton," Ward said, and it took the space of four words for Clint to realize he was a Hawkeye groupie, despite his buttoned-up appearance.

Clint didn't really have to go any farther than the cargo hold to know that the plane was going to be fancy. There was the Corvette, for starters; Clint knew something was up with that, though he didn't quite know what. They weren't exactly taking the Bus to a car show. The lab looked pretty swanky, but then again, SHIELD had a lot of mobile labs. They were all pretty swanky.

For some reason it was really weird to him that the Bus had an elevator. You moved things into and out of planes on cargo lifts from outside, so it wasn't for that. But no, there was a door in the corner with lettering above it that said ELEVATOR. Apparently this place was upscale enough that they even had the luxury of not lugging things up the stairs.

Clint followed Ward up the staircase; apparently _Clint_ didn't get to use the elevator, even though _he_ was lugging things. The door on the catwalk led to a short hallway, but Clint couldn't see much of what was on the other side, Ward blocking his view. The hallway opened up, and Ward finally stepped out of the way, letting Clint get a good look.

"Welcome to the Bus," Ward said, and his excitement was palpable; he was clearly so proud to be showing the amazing Hawkeye their fancy plane that he could hardly stand it.

Clint wondered what would happen if he just left.

Granted, the plane was even fancier than Clint had expected. He knew there had been mobile command stations like this one in the past, but he'd pictured military efficiency and cold black walls. This was more in the executive jet style, nice couches, wood furnishings, and was that a fucking bar? They had a fucking bar.

"Nice," Clint said, just so Ward would stop looking at him in nervous anticipation, and Ward beamed.

"Let me show you to your bunk," Ward said, leading him on. They passed the command center, which made Clint feel a little better; it looked more SHIELD appropriate, like maybe they did some work around here. He didn't quite realize what the white pods against the walls were until Ward opened the door to one of them, revealing a bed.

"There's a seatbelt in the bed if you'd rather stay here during takeoff," Ward told him. "And I left you a copy of the safety card." Ward looked a little uncomfortable. " _Please_ review the safety card."

"Will do," Clint said, putting his bag down on the bed.

"Agent Barton," Ward said.

 _Oh god, here it comes_ , Clint thought to himself.

"I just want to say that we're honored to have you here," Ward said. "Your work has always been an inspiration to me."

Clint wanted to tell him that he should really be using it as a guide for what not to do, but he refrained. "I'm looking forward to working with you," Clint said.

Ward looked like he might burst with happiness; he was going to say something else, but the PA system interrupted. "Takeoff in five minutes," the pilot said.

"Better strap in," Clint said, hoping like hell that there weren't two sets of seatbelts in here.

"Time to stop making eyes at Hawkeye and sit down," a woman said as she passed by, patting Ward on the back.

Ward made a grumpy face, and Clint could see him pull it together, try to put his agent mask back on. "If you'll excuse me," Ward said, and Clint nodded.

So this was the Bus, then. On the whole, it was nicer than some of the places Clint had lived; actually, except for the ill-advised two weeks he'd spent at Stark Tower, it was nicer than _all_ of the places Clint had lived. It wasn't what he'd expected; it was refined and polished, luxurious, all while remaining efficient and functional. It felt familiar, that combination; it felt like Phil.

Clint felt incredibly out of place.

Clint put his bag under the bed, fishing out the seatbelt and fastening it before picking up the safety card. He didn't feel like anybody was going to do the flight attendant dance on this trip. Well, Ward would probably do it if Clint asked, but it felt kind of like an abuse of power.

\--

Introductions had gone approximately as Phil had expected. Fitzsimmons were their usual exuberant selves all over Clint; Ward appeared to have gotten his shit together and was at least pretending he didn't have stars in his eyes. Skye grinned and said "awesome" more times than usual, but Melinda just nodded, looking impassive and slightly bored.

No surprises there.

"The file I got mostly just said to show up," Clint said, as they stood in the command center. He leaned over, resting his elbows on the table, but he straightened quickly when he realized he'd just accidentally opened a bunch of files on the touchscreen. "Tell me what's really going on."

Phil fixed the display, closing the extraneous files and putting the target's dossier up. "This is Jacob Davidson. Up until three months ago, he was a SHIELD agent. An op turned bad, and he was presumed drowned."

Clint frowned. "If he drowned, his tracker should have still been broadcasting."

"After he drowned, he was presumed eaten by a shark," Phil said. "It wasn't his day."

"Fair enough," Clint said.

"Two weeks ago, he resurfaced in Adelaide," Phil said, putting up a grainy surveillance video. "In the middle of a busy street, he walked up to this man." He put up the next profile. "Jack Williams. According to witnesses, he tapped him on the shoulder, waited for him to turn around, shot him twice in the head, and just walked away." Phil pulled up the pictures of the crime scene, not that they'd been any help so far. "Since then, he's been getting around. Jakarta. Osaka. Ravenna. Uppsala. The last one was Accra. His attacks are apparently random, except for one thing."

"Other than the fact that the cities all end in A?" Clint said.

"Except for Adelaide," Skye put in.

"Starts with an A," Clint said.

"Are you finished?" Melinda snapped.

"There's one thing that ties these attacks together," Phil said, putting another file up on the screen.

Clint's face went blank, his look of grim amusement gone. "The Index."

"Yep," Phil said. "So far he's taken out at least six people with low-level superhuman abilities. We have local teams notifying everyone on the Index that they can reach, but between other missions and people who just don't want to see us, it's been a struggle."

"Any idea why he's doing it?" Clint asked.

"My turn," Skye said. "He wasn't exactly quiet about it. He's been all _over_ the hero boards."

Clint frowned. "Hero boards?"

Phil sighed internally. He'd never understood how Clint never went any further online than the SHIELD intranet and his Hotmail account. Now he'd gotten Skye started on her favorite topic, which was always dangerous.

"There are generally three kinds of superhero message boards," Skye said. "One, we have the mainstream boards, which are pretty much just groupies and haters yelling at each other. Two, we have the conspiracy theory boards, which are self-explanatory. Both those kinds of boards are _about_ people with powers." Skye pulled up a website and put it on the screen, typing in her username. "The third kind are _for_ people with powers." 

"So you just-" Clint said, making a wiggling motion with his fingers. "Hacked in?"

Skye looked at him. "I registered for an account," she said patiently.

"Oh," Clint said.

"Now, most of these people are nutjobs who ran away from the conspiracy theory boards," she said, clicking on a thread. "At least some of them, though, are definitely legit, and they stick together. From what I understand-" she glanced at Phil- "SHIELD has left them alone mostly because it would be way more suspicious to start taking them down every time they pop up. Because some of their members are on the Index, most of these boards have rules against discussing PGSOs- 'pseudo-governmental shadow organizations', i.e. us- but that hasn't exactly been possible lately, not when these started showing up everywhere. Just to warn you, it's not pretty, especially the end."

Skye hit play on the embedded video. Phil really didn't want to see it again, not when he'd all but memorized it, but there wasn't a way around it. Clint needed to know what they were working with.

Phil had seen a lot of videos from terrorists who said any number of things. He'd seen them claim that their power came from half a dozen gods and represented the true ideals of just about every nation. He'd heard them say that they were doing it for the benefit of this group or that group or the other group, whether or not they actually belonged to it.

He'd just never seen one that claimed to be doing it for _him_.

The video was only a few minutes long, and parts of it were incomprehensible. It was a ramble about how SHIELD had the wrong idea, about how there was no reining in anyone with superhuman abilities, how they were a corruption- of what, he didn't seem to be quite clear, but he was pretty firm on the point- how SHIELD was dragging its feet, refusing to take the "inevitable step" towards ending the problem of superpowered individuals once and for all. He explained how he'd decided to do SHIELD a favor and make the decision for them; of course, he knew they'd thank him when all was said and done.

Most of it was fairly creepy, but it didn't really get disturbing until the very end. He'd finished his speech and sat looking at the camera; Phil didn't know if it was his imagination, but Davidson didn't seem to blink enough.

"That's everything you need to know," Davidson said. "In time, you'll learn to appreciate my assistance." He held up a pistol, cocking it. "It's time for my mission to continue."

Off frame somewhere, someone screamed.

"Good night, everyone," he said. "I'll see you soon." Then he smiled and turned off the camera.

Just like every time they'd watched it, no one said anything for a long moment.

"This is a PR disaster," Clint said finally, still looking at the screen, and Phil could tell it wasn't exactly the response anyone had been expecting.

"We have PR?" Fitz said, confused.

"I thought we were a pseudo-governmental shadow organization," Simmons said.

"If we were, we wouldn't put our logo on everything," Clint said; it wasn't the first time Phil had heard him complain about that. "We're not secret to the people on the Index. We know who they are. We've interfered with their lives. Now they're all in danger because of it." He shook his head. "If we don't stop this guy, more innocent people are going to die, and the rest of them are going to panic. That's going to end very, very badly for SHIELD. We have to bring him down as fast as we can."

"That's why I brought you in," Phil said. It didn't surprise him in the least that Clint had cut to the heart of the issue so quickly. "We needed additional field assistance, preferably from someone the powered community was already familiar and comfortable with."

"So you called for an Avenger," Clint said, crossing his arms.

"There were several candidates," Phil lied. "But your status as an Avenger certainly didn't hurt."

Clint nodded. "Okay. What's our next move?"

"We're working on predicting his movements," Melinda said. "Our progress hasn't exactly been satisfactory."

"The weirdest thing about it is how he's doing it," Ward said. "We're at the point where we can figure out what city he's headed to- we even beat him to Accra. But there are two people on the Index who live in or near Accra. There are four in Jakarta. Everywhere he's been, with the exception of Ravenna, there's been more than one potential target. He's only taken out one of them."

"Divide and conquer," Clint said. "We have to send teams to cover both potentials, and we get slowed down and spread ourselves too thin."

Melinda shook her head. "In Uppsala they were a brother and sister who lived down the street from each other. He had the opportunity to take both of them out and didn't. It can't be the only thing."

Clint frowned. He turned to Phil. "Sir, with your permission, I'd like to review all the files on this case myself."

"That's what you're here for," Phil said. "If you need anything, just ask for it." Clint nodded. 

"Make it quick," Melinda said. "We touch down in Victoria in four and a half hours."

"It's the A's," Skye said. "They're cursed."

\--

The files on the case were long but irritatingly unhelpful; there was plenty of stuff that seemed like it had nothing to do with anything, though Clint knew that was a dangerous thing to think. When Clint reached the note that just said SEE FITZSIMMONS, he gladly took the reprieve, finding his way down to the lab.

Fitz and Simmons were doing something scientific, talking back and forth while they worked on different tasks; Simmons looked up and saw Clint, smiling brightly. "Agent Barton," she said.

Fitz finished what he was writing and looked up too. "Hullo," he said. "Please, come in."

Very suddenly Clint was sandwiched between two excited scientists. "Hey," he said uneasily. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Of course not," Fitz said.

"We're happy to see you," Simmons said.

Clint became aware that Fitz and Simmons were having a conversation without him; they weren't really subtle about it, and while it was honestly kinda adorable, it was also weirding him out. "Can I help with something?" Clint asked, looking between the two of them.

Clint still didn't know what was going on, but he recognized the game of "You ask him," "No, _you_ ask him!" even without words, and he saw when Simmons lost. "We know that you don't have powers," Simmons said. "I mean, everyone knows that."

"Oh, a combination of rigorous training and the best archery technology SHIELD has to offer, that's Clint Barton," Fitz assured him. "Though the technology can be better, trust us."

Simmons looked around, as if checking for spies. "But you could tell us if you did have powers," she said, in a low voice.

"Nope, all natural," Clint said, feeling the familiar mixture of pride and annoyance that came with questions like that, and both of them looked disappointed. "If it helps balance things out, I can't hear for shit."

"Oh well," Simmons sighed. "Then we admire your hard work and dedication."

"Thanks, I think," Clint said.

"What do you need?" Fitz asked.

"I need to know more about the target's arsenal," Clint said, happy to be out of the spotlight.

"We can certainly help there," Simmons said, pleased. She reached under the holotable, flicking it on, waving away the collection of things that had been saved when it was powered off. In one corner, there was a small square, and she stretched it out across the table.

"He's used handguns every time," Fitz said, lifting up projections of three weapons. "These are the ones he left at the scene. I don't suspect he kept the others, but we didn't exactly have time to look." Next he pulled up two rows of bullets. "What we recovered and the reconstruction thereof, as you can see."

Fitz stepped back, and Clint took it as his cue to take over. Hesitantly, he reached out, putting his hands on either side of one bullet, as if he had it in an imaginary box; he pulled it towards him, and thankfully it moved, separating from the rest. He spread his hands, as if to make the box bigger, and the projection expanded.

He looked over at Fitz and Simmons, who were watching him raptly. "No, please, go on," Simmons said, waving a hand at him.

"You may be the only person ever to come out of Operations who could use a holotable on the first try," Fitz told him.

Clint thought it was best not to tell them that, one, he hadn't come out of Operations, and two, you had to use a holographic interface to work the good coffee maker at Stark Tower. Clint had learned to manipulate them with one eye closed while usually still asleep. He turned his attention back to the bullet, looking it over, turning it to the side to get a clearer look, making it spin just to see if he could, possibly to impress Fitz and Simmons. He shrunk the projection and put it back, going over the rest of the materials in the same way, examining them closely.

There was absolutely nothing interesting about any of it.

"Well, now we know how he's doing it," Clint said.

"What?" Simmons asked, frowning in confusion.

"So, all of this is SHIELD-issue," Clint said. "You would not _believe_ the amount of weaponry that never gets recovered. End of an op, maybe a handgun ends up in your bag, maybe it's not yours. Hey, it's a mistake anybody could make, right? Maybe you set it aside for when need a gun for something else. Pretty soon you end up with a stockpile of weapons that can only be traced back as far as SHIELD, if that."

"But we already know who he is," Fitz said. "He's not making it a secret."

"Untraceable weapons are one of the ingredients for a bug-out bag," Ward said from the doorway, looking pleased with himself. "Along with fake IDs, disguises-"

"And a shitton of cash," Clint finished. "You hide it somewhere secure, and when things go bad, you're ready."

Simmons was skeptical. "This is a lot to keep in a single spot."

Ward crossed his arms. "I have twenty."

"Twenty?" Clint said, giving him a look.

"How many do you have?" Ward asked, sounding a little nervous, like he was afraid he wasn't going to live up to Hawkeye's standards.

Clint actually had no idea. There was the one he made for himself and kept in his apartment, but the last time he checked it had a passport, some granola bars, and maybe twenty-five bucks in it. He technically had more, but he didn't know how many. Whenever the subject came up, Phil would sigh heavily; a week later, Clint would get a note with just coordinates on it. Two days after that, he would forget where he put the note. He always felt bad about it, but after a while, he got the feeling that Phil was just taking the same bag and moving it around.

"That's not the point," Clint said, and Ward looked disappointed. "The point is, we know what he's working with and how he got it. Right now, we can safely assume that he's not going to start pulling out advanced tech, and it looks to me like he's probably not working with someone from inside SHIELD- most of this stuff has already been replaced for standard field issue." Clint shrugged. "We can't rule either of those things out, but that's my analysis."

"That's not very promising," Fitz said, disappointed.

"It's all I got," Clint said. _If you wanted better, you should have called someone better,_ he didn't add.

"All crew, report to the command center," Phil's voice said over the PA.

"Saved by the bell," Clint said.

"Shall we?" Ward said, and Clint let himself be shepherded out.

\--

The moment Melinda saw Phil's face, the first words out of her mouth were, "What's our new course?"

"Son of a bitch," Ward said through clenched teeth.

"We'll be continuing to Victoria," Phil said. "But we'll be showing up for a crime scene investigation."

"Wait, so we missed him?" Skye said in disbelief. " _Again?_ "

"We have a body that says we did," Phil said.

The sense of disappointment among the team was palpable. Phil watched Clint watch the rest of them, getting the tone of the room. It wasn't exactly difficult. They split along predictable lines: Fitzsimmons dejected, Melinda and Ward ready to bash in some heads, Skye incredulous, almost offended that things went wrong yet another time.

"We'll be on the ground in an hour and forty-five minutes," Melinda said tightly, like it was hurting her to say it, like she was admitting a weakness instead of stating a fact.

"Fitzsimmons, you're at the crime scene," Phil said. "Ward's interviewing witnesses with me." He looked at Melinda. "I want us to be able to be in the air in five minutes."

Clint was waiting for Phil to speak, which wasn't promising. If he'd had some novel idea, he'd have said it already.

"Barton, go with Fitzsimmons," Phil told him, thinking quickly. "Make sure people see you. I want word to get out of who investigated this."

"Got it," Skye said, catching on. "I'll monitor for response and get with HQ about security cameras."

"Good," Phil said. "Be ready to roll the moment we touch the tarmac."

\--

Avengering had never actually been Clint's idea.

Once Natasha had been chosen, he'd been voluntold to do it; it was a foregone conclusion that he'd go where Natasha went, but he would have liked to have actually been asked. But no, his main instructions had been "Show up," "Wear this," and "Don't backtalk me, Barton."

Nobody had explained to Clint how public Avengering was going to be. He was very aware that this wasn't a world you could hide in anymore- except that was his job, that was _exactly_ his job, he was a fucking assassin, he hid in places. But all it took was the Chitauri invasion and a couple of cell phone cameras, and now Clint was an action figure.

This assignment made it particularly obvious how much things had changed, because now he'd essentially been instructed to look conspicuous and make sure everybody knew he was very concerned. He was very concerned, so that was pretty easy, but the other part got pretty grating pretty fast. Unfortunately, he couldn't really do much else. He knew basically what Fitzsimmons were doing, but there wasn't anything he could help with. When he'd attempted to help with the perimeter, he'd been politely rebuffed. Standing around was it, then.

It was really hard for him not to notice Skye, who was in the crowd that had purposefully not been cleared away. She was trying to be as obvious as possible, holding her phone up over people's heads so she could take pictures of Clint. Other people definitely noticed, though they were a little more surreptitious. Skye gave him a big thumbs up before slipping away to spread word of Hawkeye's good deeds around the internet.

Clint sighed, turning his attention back to Fitzsimmons. Maybe they needed chalk outlines. He could outline things in chalk. He was great at chalk.

\--

Phil was proud of his team; this had been a disheartening experience for all of them, but they were still doing their best, working together, the stress of it all bringing them closer. It was easier when they got closer with board games or whisky- or both- but it wasn't like this, wasn't the same when it was this hard-won.

Unfortunately, their performance was sort of a waste, because the investigation was disappointingly simple. It wasn't that Phil would have been particularly excited about a puzzle, just that he'd have vastly preferred something, _anything_ that wasn't just a carbon copy of everything they already knew. The weapons were the same garden-variety ones that could have come from anywhere. The MO was the same, a public attack, though it had taken place early enough that there were fewer witnesses this time. Davidson hadn't dropped anything or worn anything that couldn't have been gotten anywhere. By doing something so incredibly blatant and then continuing to just get away, he was leaving them with nothing at all.

It was amazing where SHIELD training and a fanatical devotion to a cause could take you.

As they drove back to the Bus, Phil's cell phone rang, and he answered. "Coulson."

"Hey, so I have something," Skye said on the other end.

 _Please, for the love of god tell me it's something useful,_ Phil didn't say. "Go on."

"I'm still working on finding the next target, but I might know where Davidson is," Skye said.

Phil put his hand over the phone. "Speed up," he ordered Ward.

"He's been online again, and this time he was sloppy," Skye said, as they gathered in the command center. "I tracked him to a small town in Argentina. It looks like he just got there."

"He picked an isolated spot, didn't he?" Clint said, looking at the map. "They have internet all the way out there?"

Skye looked at Clint as if he were very stupid. "They don't live on the moon."

"Flight time's eleven hours," Melinda said warningly.

"This is all we've got," Phil said. "We'll just have to hope we're there before he leaves again." Melinda just shrugged her "sure hope you know what you're doing" shrug and left for the cockpit.

"Oh god," Fitz moaned, as they found seats for takeoff. "Tell me she just didn't say we have to spend eleven straight hours on this plane, not again."

"At least we get to have a good night's sleep," Simmons said, though she sounded less than pleased herself.

"We have been in the air fifteen hours in the last two days," he pointed out. "There is only so much work to be done."

"You're just upset I won't play chess with you anymore," she said.

"You won't play chess with me anymore because you always lose," he countered.

"Yes, and that has gotten very tedious." She sighed. "Come and help me in the lab, and I'll play a few games with you."

"Deal," Fitz said.

Phil just shook his head, though he was smiling. It was comforting to hear them bicker. At least something around here was.

\--

One thing Clint hadn't been apprised of in his tour of the Bus was that its bunks were un-fucking-comfortable.

It wasn't that he minded the length, though they were short enough that he only had to flex his feet to touch the far wall- he didn't know how someone as tall as Ward even handled it. He didn't mind the cheap-ass government pillows, though they were about as much use as having no pillow at all. He didn't even mind the shitty mattress, which was only marginally better than sleeping on a board.

It was the combination of all of them that he minded.

He shifted and rolled and shifted again, but there was nothing for it tonight; there was no fucking way he was getting any sleep like this. Clint had been sleep deprived for probably most of his life, certainly more time than he'd been well-rested, but that didn't mean he liked it. He wondered where he could manage to get at least a little nap. The couch in the lounge was a choice, but the lounge wasn't exactly a low-traffic area. There was a cot that he could set up in the interrogation room, but Clint wasn't a hundred percent sure he wouldn't accidentally lock himself in; he'd take bad sleep over going through that.

That really just left him with one choice.

He didn't bother to throw his shirt back on, though he probably should have. Nobody was awake, with the possible exception of May- he wasn't certain that May slept at all. He padded through the lounge and past the interrogation room, silently making his way down the stairs and into the cargo bay.

The door of the SUV was open when he tried the handle, which was good, because he had no idea where the keys were. Unfortunately, it wasn't as empty as he'd hoped.

"Um," he said. "Hey."

"Hi," Skye said, looking up from her laptop. "Did you need something?"

"Uh, not exactly?" Clint told her. "Honestly, I was kinda looking for a place to crash."

She scooted over, swinging her legs off the seat. "C'mon. Plenty of room."

Clint probably should have let her have her privacy, but fuck it, he was tired, and the seat looked so comfortable. He slid in next to her, shutting the door behind him.

"So," she said, shutting her laptop and putting it on the floorboard. "You're Hawkeye."

Skye looked really excited; Clint should have slept in the lounge. "That's what they tell me."

"What's it like to be an Avenger?" she asked.

"Loud," Clint said. "Lots of property damage. Lots of flying glass. I don't know if I'd really recommend it."

"You sound so cheerful about it," Skye said.

He shrugged. "I wasn't an Avenger for very long. I work better as a SHIELD agent. The limelight's not my thing."

"You didn't really get much press," she assured him. "I mean, proportionally. The chatter was the loudest about Hulk and Thor."

Clint frowned. "Thor? Really?" For some reason, Clint had expected Rogers to pull the biggest crowd; maybe that was just because he'd always been so much larger than life to start with.

"Yeah, it was Hulk, Thor, Captain America, Black Widow, then you," she told him. "Those are the worldwide rankings, though. Captain America was the top in, well. America."

"What about Iron Man?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I couldn't put Iron Man in. Tony Stark generates so much buzz daily that he'd have blown the scale, and there's basically no solid way to differentiate news about him into Tony Stark and Iron Man."

Clint sat back, crossing his arms. "So what's your story?" he asked. "Ward's a super spy, Fitz and Simmons are lab rats, and May is-" He shook his head. "May is May. But what are you?"

She shrugged. "Hacker, activist, hacktivist," she said. "Cleaned up my act, barring a few missteps. Now I'm trying to be a SHIELD agent, if they'll have me."

"Why don't you think they'll have you?" Clint asked.

"They don't take just anybody off the street," Skye said, and Clint kindly didn't point out the dozen or so cases he could think of off the top of his head that would prove her wrong. "I have to be the best. That's why Ward tortures me with training on a daily basis."

Clint was suddenly, forcibly reminded of Kate, of her drive, of her standing out there every day with a bow in her hand shooting until she couldn't anymore; it hurt a little.

Or maybe it hurt a lot.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Do I have something on my face?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, it's just- you kinda remind me of somebody."

"Somebody you don't want to be reminded of," she said.

"It's not like-" Clint sighed. "Okay, it probably is like that."

"Star-crossed lover? Wayward sister?" Skye offered.

"Just a friend," he said. "My partner in crime fighting. She's kind of my, um, protégée? Not that she really needs me like that anymore." He looked down. "Not that she really needed me like that in the first place."

"Gotcha," Skye said, nodding her head. "I mean, kinda. I gotcha enough to know we should probably talk about something else."

"You're probably right about that," Clint said.

"So what's up with you and Coulson?" Skye asked.

It was Clint's turn to shrug. "I used to work with him a lot, before the stuff with the Chitauri happened," he said, giving her the most sanitized version he could possibly come up with. "He wanted extra help, so here I am."

"Is he really as different now as everybody says he is?" she said.

Clint thought about it, about the way Phil treated his team. "No," he said. The only thing that seemed different about Phil was that he was more open, more like Clint had always seen him, when there was no one else to see. "Not really."

"And here I thought you were gonna bring me good gossip," Skye said, though she didn't sound particularly offended.

Clint yawned. "Nope."

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to keep you up."

"It's okay," Clint said, settling back into the seat and shutting his eyes. "I just need a little nap."

"Don't let me stop you," Skye said. Before he knew what she was doing, she was reclining against him.

Clint snorted. "This is your idea of not stopping me?"

"You're taking up space in _my_ bed," she said. "I'm using you as a pillow."

"Fair enough," Clint said. It was surprisingly comfortable, once they got rearranged and stretched out. It was probably a little sketchy, but whatever. Clint liked to cuddle. He wasn't in any rush to stop it.

\--

The morning briefing was already getting off to a late start. Phil didn't wake up on time, which almost never happened, but he supposed they were all a little too tired. Ward was up, groggily fighting with the coffee maker in the galley, and Melinda was in the head. The rest of the crew were missing; in preference to waiting for them all to get their shit together, Phil decided it was just faster to suck it up and make the rounds.

The bunks were his first stop. Fitzsimmons's were both open, with no one inside. Phil knocked on the door of Skye's bunk; it didn't surprise him that there was no answer. He slid the door open a crack, not looking in just in case she was at any stage of naked. "Skye," he said, but there was still no answer. He pulled the door open further; there was no sign of her, her bed still made up.

He frowned. Oh well. It wasn't much of a mystery where she was. He'd probably have to retrieve Fitzsimmons from the lab anyway, which was on the way. Three birds with one stone.

The doors of the lab were shut; Phil knocked, interrupting some kind of argument, and pointed up. Both of them nodded, but then right back to talking. He'd have to come back for them later. Phil walked farther into the cargo bay. He knocked on the window of the SUV, but there was still no response. Skye was really going to have to learn not to be such a hard sleeper if she wanted to get the whole SHIELD agent thing down. He opened the door, ready to-

It didn't matter what he'd been ready to do, because Skye wasn't alone. She and Clint were stretched out on the seat; Clint had his back to the far door, and Skye rested against his chest, his arm draped around her. 

Clint blinked awake at the sudden light from the door. "Shit," he said, his eyes growing wide.

Skye stirred, opening her eyes and looking up at Phil.

"This is absolutely not what it looks like," she said quickly, sitting up. "Unless you think we were just sleeping, in which case it is what it looks like."

"Get up," Phil said. "Put some clothes on. We have a briefing."

"Yes, sir," Clint said. Phil left, not paying attention to the whispered conference behind him.

He made it as far as the interrogation room before he cracked. He drew back his arm, swinging for the wall; by god, he was going to take his frustrations out on something, and this was the best alternative to Clint's face.

Before he made contact, Melinda caught his hand; it was a testament to how he was feeling that he hadn't even noticed she was there. "Not here," she said firmly. "Not now. Whatever it is, worry about it later."

Phil swallowed, nodding. Of course, because that's what kind of day it already was, Skye and Clint came up the stairs before Melinda had even let him go. Clint gave him a wounded look, and Phil came close to pulling away and going for it; his hand flexed in Melinda's grip, but he kept it together, taking a breath.

"Agent May, please remind Fitzsimmons that we have a briefing," Phil said, with a calmness he didn't feel. "Barton, Skye, get dressed and head to the command center. We have work to do."

\---

Clint was the next to last to make it to the briefing; Skye slipped in after him, and Clint pointedly didn't look at her, just in case. "Let's begin," Phil said, not acknowledging either of them. "This is what we've received from Corrientes." He put a map up on the screen. "This is the town where the target's transmission originated. There's been a little chatter in the past six weeks or so about a new resident, but it hasn't been much, not enough that anyone thought anything of it." Clint wondered if there was some list of famous last words of SHIELD agents that he could put that on. "Aerial surveillance shows new construction here, a few miles from town. That's the first place we have to look."

"The _only_ place we have to look," May said, sounding annoyed. Clint was familiar with her tone; Natasha had the exact same one when she got frustrated at not being able to act.

"What do we have for ground support?" Clint asked. "Have they moved in yet?"

Phil shook his head. "They can't move in," he said. "It endangers their other operations."

"It endangers innocent people if they don't," Clint snapped.

Phil gave him a look. "I didn't say I liked it."

Clint suddenly realized that the rest of the team were looking at them. He left it alone, making himself calm down. "What's our cover?"

"As luck would have it, another agent, Álvarez, is posing as an anthropologist as part of a different op," Phil said. "I'm thinking about investing in a documentary about local foodways, Simmons is a researcher, and Barton is a cinematographer. They've used this cover before to bring in another team, and Álvarez says there's pretty good community support for the idea. When we leave, it'll just be another deal that fell through. Shouldn't be a problem."

"We're on the ground in two hours," May said.

"Get ready," Phil said to the table in general. "You're dismissed."

There was the usual milling about, but it was more tense than usual. Fitzsimmons made a break for it, which didn't surprise Clint very much; he was about five seconds from following them when Phil spoke.

"Barton," Phil said, and Clint froze. "Can I have a word with you in my office?"

Phil knew exactly what he was doing; Clint couldn't refuse, not if he wanted to maintain any semblance of normalcy, not when half the team was there to hear. "Yes, sir," Clint replied.

Clint followed Phil up the stairs, stepping in when Phil held the door open for him. Phil's office was nice, but Clint could consider it later, when he wasn't about to get into a fight. Phil shut the door behind them, walking around in front of Clint.

"Would you like to tell me exactly what the fuck you did last night?" Phil snapped, without prelude.

"I didn't do anything last night," Clint said. "I got tired, I went to sleep in the car, Skye was in the car, me and Skye slept in the car. End of story."

Phil pursed his lips. "You'll have to forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe."

"You can believe it or not," Clint said. "I don't have anything else to say. And just what the fuck is it to you if anything did happen?"

"What goes on in my plane is my business," Phil said. "What happens to Skye is my business."

"And what happens to me is _not_ your business," Clint snapped. "Not anymore."

"Don't go there, Barton," Phil said flatly.

"Oh, we're there," Clint said, his anger overpowering his better judgement. "You had your chance already, and you missed it. You've been been back for months, and you didn't even call. You had plenty of time. You knew where I was. You _never_ called."

"I had work to do," Phil said.

"That's not an excuse," Clint said. "You could have spared five fucking minutes. You owed me that much."

Phil snorted. "What do you care? It's not like you didn't have company."

Clint glared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"How long did you even wait before you were with someone else?" Phil said; Clint could tell he was trying to sound like he was unaffected, but he was doing a pretty shitty job of it. "A week? Two weeks?"

"You were _dead_ ," Clint said, his fingers curling into a fist. "You fucking _died_ on me, and you're pissed off at _me_ for trying to find a way to handle it? What did you want me to do? Sit around with my thumb up my ass waiting for you to be resurrected? Drink myself to death so I could join you? You don't have any fucking right to judge me, not when you left me like that."

"So now it's my fault that I died?" Phil said, giving him a hard look.

Clint shut his eyes. "Phil, you know that's not what I meant-"

"What _did_ you mean, Barton?" Phil snapped. " _You_ don't have the right to blame me for abandoning you. Do you think I wanted to die? Oh yeah, I begged Loki to stab me in the back just to get one over on you. You uncovered my secret plan."

"Fuck you, Coulson," Clint said, unable to think of anything better to say, any more eloquent way to express himself, any way at all to keep this from slipping out of his hands.

Phil crossed his arms over his chest. "I think you should go."

Somehow Clint knew that leaving was the worst thing he could possibly do. He knew what he needed to do; if he could only cross the distance between them, apologize, take Phil into his arms, this could all end.

Clint left.

\--

After Clint left, Phil forced himself to sit down at his desk. He forced himself to look at his work. He forced himself to pay attention.

An hour later, he was on his back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling and wondering how everything had gone so wrong. There were so many better things he could be doing, and he knew that. He just didn't know if he could handle any of them right now without doing something stupid.

There was a quiet knock at his door, and Phil sat up, trying to act like he hadn't been in here feeling sorry for himself instead of acting like an adult. "Yes?" he said, smoothing down his hair.

Skye stuck her head in, and Phil came very close to telling her to fuck off. He got it back together; it wasn't Skye he was angry with. She'd just gotten caught in the crossfire. The worst thing she was guilty of was getting off with another agent in SHIELD property; they were going to have a talk about that, but that was still Clint's fault, as far as Phil was concerned.

"Can I come in?" she said carefully, and Phil waved her in.

He must have looked worse than he thought, because she winced. "Please don't kick me out."

"I'm not going to kick you out," Phil said; he wasn't sure whether she was talking about kicking her off of the team or out of his office, but either way, he was going to be calmer than that.

"Look, I didn't sleep with-" Skye said. "Okay, in a literal sense I slept with Clint, but we didn't have sex. We didn't even make out. We really, honestly didn't. I need you to know that."

"I don't care what you do," Phil said, even though they both knew it was a huge lie; Skye didn't even look offended.

"You care what Clint does," she said.

"What gives you that impression?" Phil said, aware that he sounded snide.

She sat down next to him on the couch. "Come on, AC," she said gently, nudging him with her shoulder. "Don't be like that. I don't know what's up with you and Clint, but don't stress, okay?"

Phil put on his best polite yet distant smile. "I'm fine. Agent Barton and I just had a disagreement. Everything is fine."

Skye gave him a look that said she wasn't buying it. "Sure. Everything's great. That's why you're hiding in your office."

"I'm not hiding," Phil said, because he really wasn't; he just would prefer for all of humanity to fuck off for a while, starting with Clint.

Skye sighed, like she was starting to get fed up with being stonewalled. "Whatever you say."

Phil came very close to telling her then, just letting her know, having someone else to share this with; he was close enough that it hurt to pull it back in, to realize that he was never going to be able to do it. "Agent Barton and I have history," he said instead. "He can be extremely frustrating at times."

"Are you trying to say he can't keep it in his pants?" Skye asked.

"He does when he has to," Phil said.

"Cold," she said.

"I was being charitable," he said, even though he really wasn't.

"I'm not gonna go for him, if that's what you're worried about," Skye assured him.

He wanted to say that he wasn't worried about it, that he wasn't worried about her, but he said, "Thank you," instead, which wasn't what he meant at all.

"It'll be okay," Skye said, putting her head on his shoulder. "We'll catch the guy, then he'll go, and we'll get back to the business of being badass."

It had never really hit Phil until that moment that this was going to end, that he was going to lose Clint yet again; he couldn't decide how he felt about it. Part of him wanted to throw Clint into the interrogation room right now and open the roof, but he didn't know how many more times he could handle that, losing him over and over.

Skye looked like she was going to say something else, but before she could, Melinda spoke over the PA. "Prepare for final descent," she said, and Phil reached for his seatbelt, which had of course fallen into the crack between the cushions and the back of the couch.

"Help me out here," Skye said, looking around for the ends of her seatbelt.

"It should be in there somewhere," Phil told her.

"I'm not rummaging around in your bed," Skye said, making a face.

Phil rolled his eyes, not saying anything. It was faster to just find the seatbelt.

\--

Álvarez met them when they landed, leading them to the town. Fitz, Melinda, Skye, and Ward remained on the outskirts, waiting with the SUV while Clint, Phil, and Simmons walked in with Álvarez.

"They get tourists from time to time, mostly backpackers, so it won't be too terribly strange," Álvarez explained. "I'm in good standing here, which wasn't easy, and I'd appreciate it if you kept that in mind. Just try to be as polite as possible."

As they walked further into the town, Clint was actually starting to feel better. He'd fucked up his personal life yet again, but at least he didn't just have to sit in the Bus and think about it. There was a mission to focus on. It had always cheered him up, though he was aware how odd that was.

"That's Hawkeye," a kid hissed in Spanish, as they walked through the streets, and Clint didn't turn around. It probably didn't present a threat, but he didn't need to give the kid more ammunition.

"You're an idiot," her friend said back. "That's not Hawkeye. Hawkeye wears black and purple."

" _You're_ the idiot," she replied. "That's his _costume_. He doesn't wear it all the time."

"Who's Hawkeye?" a third kid said, and Clint frowned. Maybe Skye was right about the whole media thing.

They were maybe five minutes in when they were stopped by a little old woman, who greeted them excitedly. Clint couldn't make out most of what she was saying; her voice was low and raspy, and he wasn't entirely sure if all of what she was saying was actually in Spanish. She was joined by a younger man, and all the introductions went around again, then another woman joined them, and pretty soon everyone was insisting that everyone else come in and enjoy their hospitality.

While Phil and Álvarez handled that, Clint scanned the street. There wasn't much to see, people looking at them curiously, but then he saw it- a little kid looked them over, sizing them up. He made eye contact with Clint, then got on his bicycle and took off.

"Sir," Clint said, leaning over to speak softly to Phil. "Pretty sure Davidson has a spy." Phil nodded.

"Franco," Phil said to Álvarez, and Simmons startled when Phil clapped his hand on her shoulder. "Jemma will assist you from here."

"Wait, what?" Simmons said. "I will?"

"Congratulations, you just became a cultural ambassador," Phil said. "Good luck."

She was still stammering and looking around in confusion as Phil and Clint politely ran away. 

"Oh, she is gonna be pissed at you," Clint said.

"She's the one who wanted to get out of the lab," Phil said. "Sometimes assisting in a manhunt entails having a polite chat with somebody's grandmother."

"Eh," Clint said. "She's British, it'll be right up her alley."

The kid had already realized they were following him; he pedaled faster, heading back out of town. Unfortunately for him, the route he took went right past where May and the rest of the team waited.

When they reached the SUV, Phil slid into the passenger's seat, Clint hopping into the seat behind him. "Follow the bike," he told May, buckling his belt, and May put the car in drive.

"Jesus Christ, let me get the door closed first," Clint said, but May was unsympathetic.

The kid was still pedalling for all he was worth, but he seemed to realize pretty quickly that it was definitely a losing battle. May slowed down when they got close, but the kid resolutely ignored them.

"I'll talk to him," Phil said.

"Let me handle it," Clint said, rolling down his window. "Your Spanish fucking sucks, sir."

"Like to see you do any better," Phil said.

"Watch me," Clint replied. "Hey, kid," he called, in Spanish that was easily like five hundred times better than Phil's- not that it was hard. The kid reluctantly stopped, turning around, and Clint motioned him over. "You're going to tell the white guy who lives outside of town we're here, right?" Clint pulled some bills out of his pocket, and the kid's eyes widened. "All this is yours if you tell us how to get there. We can protect you from him, don't worry about it."

The boy hesitated for a long moment, looking at Clint and the money. "Up this road," he said finally. "When the road separates, take a right, then cross the stream. The path to his house is on the left."

"Thanks," Clint said. The kid reached for the money, but Clint pulled it away. "Don't tell anybody where you got this. Hide it the best you can in a couple different places, spend it a little bit at a time, and if anybody asks, say somebody gave it to you for chores or you won it in a bet or something. Be vague."

"Thank you, sir," he said, as Clint put the money in his hand. He looked up at Clint. "The _yanqui_ is crazy. Be careful."

"Thanks," Clint said, as the kid grabbed his bike, heading back towards town.

"He thinks Davidson is crazy, but he took his money anyway?" Skye said, as May drove off again.

Clint shrugged. "Kid's a little businessman."

"How much did you give that kid?" Phil asked suspiciously.

Clint shrugged. "Like six hundred pesos."

Phil gave him a hard look. "Do you know how much money that is, Barton?"

"Yup," Clint said. "What? Don't act like SHIELD's gonna miss it."

"We don't know exactly what we're getting into here," Phil told them, ignoring Clint's spending habits for the moment. "Melinda, you take Skye and Fitz. Skye, I want you to get in and pull whatever information you can. Fitz, look out for traps and alarms. Ward, you're with me and Clint."

They followed the kid's directions, heading out into a wooded area, stopping just past the stream. The path wasn't hard to find; it was big enough to drive a car up, but May left the SUV at the trailhead. Standing the beginning of the path, Clint could just see what was at the end: a large, slightly run-down house with a smaller, obviously new building beside it.

Not far up the path, there was a junction, a path splitting off on both sides. "You take the left, I'll take the right," Phil told May quietly, and she nodded. Fitz looked skeptical when she started off through the trees, but he gingerly followed, Skye behind him. Phil took the path instead. It made good sense; if the guy had any tech to speak of, the trails were more likely to have cameras and motion detectors. If they got caught, oh well- all it would do was lure the target away from the house.

They walked in silence, careful of defenses; there didn't seem to be any, which bothered Clint. From their expressions, Phil and Ward didn't seem to be happy about it either. The guy was a former SHIELD agent; he wouldn't exactly have access to the shiniest toys, but this was still a pretty poor showing. There was something they were missing.

"Coulson," May said suddenly over the comm. "He was in the outbuilding. He rabbitted when he saw us. He's headed down one of the side trails, right of the main path from the house."

Clint saw a flash further down the trail. "Got him," he said, running towards it.

"Stay on Fitz and Skye," Phil said, and then he and Ward were following after Clint.

Soon, Clint could make out Davidson's back. He stopped momentarily, getting off an arrow; he was certain he'd gotten the guy in the shoulder, but there was no time to stand around and wonder about it. The target was quick, but Clint was quicker- okay, in fairness, Ward was quicker than both of them, but Ward was also about ten years younger than Clint. Clint kept his bow ready, but he couldn't seem to get another clear shot. Practicing run archery in the middle of the woods wasn't exactly his thing, mostly because you had to actually come to a stop at some point to shoot and risk the target getting too far ahead of you, if you could even manage a shot through the trees.

Why did it always look so easy when Robin Hood did it?

As they were beginning to catch up, Davidson suddenly veered off the path, making his way through the trees instead. Ward followed him, but Phil didn't. "Come on, we'll cut him off," he said, continuing down the trail. There was something off about Davidson avoiding the path like that, which would only slow him down, but Clint didn't quite know what.

As Phil charged ahead, Clint suddenly realized what was wrong with the path.

"Shitfuck," Clint said, running after him. "Phil, don't-"

\--

Phil recognized the trap immediately.

Immediately after he stepped in it, that is.

In moments Clint came tumbling after him. "You don't have an excuse, Barton," Phil said, standing up and brushing himself off.

"I misjudged the edge," Clint said, rubbing his back. "Can I at least get a thank you for trying to stop you?"

"Are you injured?" Phil asked.

Clint rolled his neck, moving his limbs around to check for pain. "Don't think so. You good?"

"So far," Phil said, looking around. Davidson had planned for this. The hole was maybe ten feet in diameter, with concrete walls and a dirt floor that hadn't been packed down. It was deep enough that Phil couldn't reach the top, and the walls didn't leave much hope of climbing out.

"Well, it looks like he's been following SHIELD SOP for rudimentary base defense," Clint said, looking his bow over for damage. "Slows you down and you can't disable it. Not pretty, but it works."

"If he'd done it like he should have, we'd probably be impaled by now," Phil said.

"It kinda fits his profile though, doesn't it?" Clint said, looking thoughtful. "If we don't have powers, we're not a real threat to him, so a non-lethal trap is best. It pays for him to stop us, but there's not much good in killing people other than his targets. It gives him a chance to win SHIELD over and convince them that he's doing the right thing."

"His plan wouldn't have worked if we'd broken our necks," Phil said. "But I follow you."

Clint stretched, looking up at the walls. "You know snipers stay in one place, right? This foot race shit is not for me."

"If I'd known we were going to be running all over South America, I would have taken that into consideration," Phil said. He sighed, sitting down. "At least you can have a nice long rest now." 

Clint didn't respond.

All things considered, this was fourth on the list of worst things that could be happening right now, after being dead, captured, or injured. Phil was still twitchy with adrenaline and dying to know what was going on; unfortunately, contacting Ward wasn't an option, not when the comm could potentially give away his position. "May," Phil tried. "Sitrep."

"Long way to go here," she responded; it definitely didn't sound like she was happy playing bodyguard instead of chasing down the target. "Where are you?"

"It's a long story," Phil said. "Let me know when you're finished."

There was a long silence. Not only did Phil not want to be trapped here, he especially didn't want to be trapped with Clint, not when they'd just had a fight. Phil had been waiting for it, for the other shoe to drop, but he still wasn't ready for it when it finally happened.

"This isn't like the last time we were trapped," Clint said, tilting his head back and resting it against the wall. Phil knew that tone; Clint was upset again. Clint was like that sometimes, perfectly fine during a mission, right back to whatever was bothering him the moment there was a break. "At least it's a lot warmer."

The last time had been kind of embarrassing; of all the things Phil expected to go through as a SHIELD agent, getting stuck in a meat locker had not been one of them.

_"So," Clint said, once they'd made a circuit of the windowless room and found no good means of escape. "Got any ketchup?"_

_"How many more jokes do you have, Barton?" Phil replied, checking the thermostat. It was only thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit, too warm for frostbite. So they had that going for them. Which was nice._

_"I got a million of 'em, sir," he said. He rubbed his arms. "No sleeves, though."_

_"I keep telling you to wear a shirt," Phil said, taking off his jacket and passing it to Clint, who shrugged it on, pulling it around himself._

_"Funny," Clint said. "I seem to recall you liking me without a shirt." Phil frowned at him, tapping his earpiece as a reminder, though he wasn't actually sure if his comm was still functioning; Clint grinned and blew him a kiss._

_Phil picked the corner of the room that seemed the least bloody and sat down. He regretted it just as soon as his ass contacted the floor._

_Clint sat down beside him, but he hopped up immediately. "Jesus fuck, that's cold."_

_"It'll warm up," Phil said, grimacing, though at this point it sounded like a remote possibility. "Sit down."_

_Clint reluctantly sat. "Here," he said, cuddling up close to Phil, taking off the jacket and tucking it in around them. He looked around the room. "Well, this is pleasant."_

_Phil looked up at the rows of aging meat. "At least when you get snowed in, you get nicer scenery."_

_"I was trying to figure out a joke about beefcake, but I couldn't quite get there," Clint said, resting his head on Phil's shoulder. Phil put his face in Clint's hair, breathing in; the freezer didn't smell all that bad, mostly just like a freezer, but Clint-smell was always preferable._

_"Stop sniffing me," Clint said._

_"I wasn't," Phil said._

_"You were too," Clint replied, but he snuggled closer. "Admit it. I'm irresistible."_

_Phil almost protested, citing the comms again; receiving no word by this point, though, meant they were either cut off or being ignored. "You caught me," he said, kissing Clint on the top of the head._

Except for the part where they had to wait four hours for rescue by people who were really not very impressed by their plight, that time had actually been a lot more pleasant than the present one.

Clint dug his heel into the dirt, looking at it in preference to looking at Phil. "Course, we were together, then. I don't think you'd feel much like warming me up now."

"It's seventy degrees out," Phil said, deliberately ignoring his meaning. He was sore from falling into the hole, _embarrassed_ from falling into the hole, and generally not in the mood to attend anybody's pity party. "You're fine."

"Maybe we'd have been better off with frostbite," Clint said, and now Clint was ignoring _him_.

"We couldn't have gotten frostbite," Phil said; Clint could have whatever conversation he wanted, but this was the one Phil was sticking to. "Wasn't actually freezing."

"You never wanted to get together in the first place, remember?" Clint said, and Phil stopped in his tracks. "You said it was a bad idea. Said you'd never get involved with another agent."

Phil remembered saying all of those things, and he remembered quite clearly how Clint had changed his mind about them. Phil had fallen right back on them after Clint was gone; it felt better that way. Lonelier, maybe, but better. Safer.

Clint swallowed. "You were right," he said quietly. "It was a bad idea."

"Clint-" Phil started, but there was nothing to finish it, nothing he thought he could say, nothing he thought Clint would hear.

They sat in silence.

"Sir?" Ward suddenly called from above them. "Is everything alright?"

"We're fine," Phil snapped. "If you're here talking to me, who's on Davidson?"

"Uh," Ward said. "About that."

Phil sighed. "Just get us out of here and let's regroup."

\--

Strangely enough, Simmons was actually quite happy when they picked her up, having had what she claimed was a lovely afternoon of learning about the local culture.

That made one of them.

Clint wanted a shower and a nap more than anything else in the world, but it wasn't to be. If nothing else, there was a debriefing to get through. After that, they'd probably take off immediately; Clint was starting to suspect that May really didn't sleep, and as the only other person capable of actually flying the Bus- with the possible exception of Ward- he had half a mind to offer to take over so she could.

She might throw him out of the plane for suggesting it, though. The plan was still in development.

Skye and Fitz had been going over the data they'd gathered, and they were more than pleased to share it once everyone had assembled.

"Okay, so we thought his attacks were based on geography, right?" Skye said, pulling up a map, the points of Davidson's attacks appearing. "Makes sense, because it more or less makes a wavy arc thing."

"That's what made us miss it, until we saw Davidson's personal copy of the Index files," Fitz said.

"Yep," Skye said. She pulled up the Index, the victims' names highlighted. "Just so you know, it's not my fault that the database is auto-sorted in alphabetical order." She tapped something, and the names rearranged themselves.

"He's going up the list in order, from least to most powered," Clint said. He shook his head. "But if he's going to do it like this, why not start at the top and work down?"

"We thought he was a terrorist," May said thoughtfully. "Turns out he's just a serial killer." Clint frowned in confusion. "Serial killers seek increasing levels of gratification. For him, it's killing people with more and more power. Whether or not he consciously realizes that's why he set it up that way, it's what his plan gives him. His real mission isn't to cause fear or disorder. That's a side effect. He wants satisfaction for himself and recognition for his good work from SHIELD."

"Also, I think he knew that if he started from the top, the Hulk would sort him out like that," Fitz said, snapping his fingers.

"And the whole thing about multiple targets per city?" Clint asked.

"I've got that one," Simmons said, raising her hand. "It's been documented that people on the Index cluster. Sometimes it's just socioeconomic- most of his targets have been in major cities- but there are some really very interesting theories on environmental factors on the genesis of superhuman abilities. You see, Leibowitz argues-" She looked around. "Right, sorry. Story for another time."

"So where to next?" Phil asked.

"Good news there," Skye said. "Next on the list we have Kim Anders and Mateo Perez, both of LA. Anders ranks below Perez, but only by one spot. That means two chances to nab him."

Clint shook his head. "No, it doesn't."

Skye frowned. "It doesn't?"

"It's only two chances if he kills Anders and gets away with it," Phil said. "If he kills Anders, he goes on to Perez. If he doesn't kill Anders, we don't know what he'll do. We've only seen him get clean kills so far, with no mistakes. He could move on to Perez. He could also skip town and go to the next target. He could lay low until the SHIELD presence dies down, and then come back around to Anders. Since we can't exactly let an innocent person die to prove a theory, we have one shot." He looked down at the table, thinking for a moment. "Ward, get in touch with SHIELD in LA. Have them put teams on Anders and Perez, but don't have them moved. Skye, see if you can trace Davidson, and get his info to all the commercial airfields and transit stations in LA."

"Can I do that?" Skye said. "I didn't know I could do that."

Phil ignored her. "May, take us to California."

With that, the briefing broke up. Clint started to head in the direction of his bunk, but Fitz and Simmons took him by both arms.

"We have something for you," Fitz said.

"It's really brilliant," Simmons said.

"You're going to love it," Fitz promised, and Clint had no choice but to let them drag him to their lair.

\--

After all the places they'd been bouncing around, it was a comfort to be in a city with a large SHIELD presence, somewhere where Phil's resources weren't inherently limited, either by politics or logistics. Phil admittedly had a tendency to become insular, to protect his teams and actively prevent outside influence, a tendency that had only gotten worse with this particular team. At this point, though, he was happy to take anything he could get.

That being said, he still wasn't willing to assign anyone to monitoring Davidson's potential targets except his people, not when it was this important, not when somebody else could fuck it up.

Especially not when someone else might get the pleasure of bringing Davidson down.

"They don't know we're observing them, and it is _not_ going to be our fault if they find out," Phil said firmly. "I want to know the instant they even think about walking outside. I want to know if anyone comes in. I want to know if anyone _breathes funny._ "

"Yes, sir," Ward said.

"Melinda, you're with Ward on Anders," Phil said. "Barton's with me."

"Bad idea," Melinda said, shaking her head. "Better if Ward goes with Barton."

Phil nodded. "We can do that," he said. Clint looked unhappy, like he wanted to say something about it, but Phil didn't wait for him to speak up. "Then we take Anders, and Barton and Ward are on Perez. Get ready. We roll out in fifteen."

Phil walked away, and Melinda fell in step behind him. "You didn't question my judgment," Melinda said.

"Was it a test of my loyalty, or a strategic decision?" Phil asked.

"Which do you think?" Melinda asked.

"Now it's a Rorschach test," Phil said. He stopped, turning to face her. "I trust you. You had a reason to make that call."

"And you didn't question it because you were relieved you wouldn't be stuck with Barton all night long," Melinda said.

"I didn't question it _and_ I'm relieved I don't have to be stuck with Barton all night long," he told her. "You should have taken Barton and left me with Ward. You're gonna regret it when it's the two of us chasing Davidson through the streets at 4 AM."

She raised an eyebrow. "You think Barton could pass me?"

"No, I think I can't keep up with you," he said.

"Then why didn't you argue?" Melinda asked, as they reached their borrowed vehicle.

Phil opened the door, holding it for her. "Because whether you wanted it to be or not, it _was_ a loyalty test," he said.

Melinda got in the car; as he shut the door behind her, he could see the small smile on her face.

\--

The employees and patrons of the barber shop across the street from Perez's apartment had been gently but firmly persuaded that they'd rather close early and get their hair done elsewhere; now Clint and Ward were setting up in the room upstairs, settling in for the familiar tension-boredom-fear-boredom-tension-more boredom that was a stakeout. Ward set up his rifle next to the window, checking lines of sight. Clint had no end of problems with putting two snipers on one team, which made the other team ready only for close-range. Then again, for all Clint knew May could knock the wings off a mosquito at a thousand yards; she seemed to do everything else perfectly, so who would be shocked?

Clint really didn't know what to expect tonight. Ward was a professional and an at least vaguely capable agent, from what Clint had seen. Maybe he'd keep it together and stick to the mission. Clint also knew that there would be hours and hours where they had nothing to do but toss playing cards into a hat; maybe he was expecting too much of Ward, wanting him to do nothing but stare out the window all night long.

Clint focused on getting the surveillance equipment set up. They had feeds from street level, covering as many angles as was possible; a local SHIELD team was set up on the other side of the building, though they'd picked a van for their base and were thus only really useful for driving the target towards Clint and Ward. There was only so much futzing around he could do with it though, partially because he only sort of knew what some of it did.

And then they were ready and alone, and Clint wasn't entirely sure what to do.

"You can take the feeds first," Clint said, before Ward could say anything. That way Ward could sit there with headphones on for a while, and Clint could work on figuring out how to be a functional human being around people who actually liked him.

Of course, the first thing Ward did was take the headphones out of the jack and turn the volume up, which Clint really should have expected.

"You might catch something I don't," Ward said, when Clint looked at him curiously.

"Good call," Clint said, looking out the window in preference to looking at Ward. It was placid outside; night was just starting to fall, and there wasn't much traffic, vehicular or pedestrian. He had good line of sight on the windows of Perez's apartment and the hallway outside it, as well as the front entrance to his building. The whole thing was generally unremarkable, which meant Clint was going to have to work to keep his guard up. If it had been a complex, delicate situation, he'd have been on his toes from the word go, but this was just watching a building waiting for a guy to show up- a highly trained, dangerous guy who was going to try to kill people, but just a guy.

Clint wished for Abomination to show up. Well, maybe not Abomination. Maybe AIM. Clint had never been able to take evil yellow beekeepers seriously.

An hour passed.

Clint considered whether he could identify the plants in Perez's hall from this distance.

Two hours passed.

Clint considered how many points shooting a takeout box without hitting the delivery person counted for.

Three hours passed.

Clint considered asking Ward if he wanted to play Punch-Buggy.

Four hours passed.

Clint considered playing Punch-Buggy with Ward without telling him.

Finally Clint stood up, stretching. "Trade places?"

"Sure," Ward said, relinquishing his position so Clint could take his spot. Clint thought about plugging the headphones back in, but it occurred to him he was being a little bit of a dick. Ward was doing absolutely nothing wrong, nothing other than thinking Clint was a good guy and being around Clint when Clint was in a bad mood.

Most people usually got him the other way around, actually; even when he was in a good mood, they thought he was a bad person.

"So," Clint said, keeping his eyes on the monitors and his back to Ward. "How'd you end up on Coulson's team? Volunteered?"

"I was voluntold," Ward said, and Clint laughed; it wasn't that funny, but a decent joke coming from Ward was actually kind of a surprise. Besides, apparently they did have at least one thing in common. "They pulled me off of solo ops to do this. I was Level Six, so I didn't even know Coulson was alive." 

"Yeah, sure would have been great if they'd announced that," Clint said, more bitterly than he intended. "Maybe a nice spread in the employee newsletter." Ward didn't say anything, and Clint could just picture the look of wary concern on his face. "So how's it treating you?" Clint said, before things could get more awkward. "Not easy giving up solo work."

"It's-" Ward paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Different. But you'd know all about that, what with your history before Strike Team Delta."

 _And we were doing_ so _good,_ Clint thought, resisting the urge to sigh. Ward sounded excited, like he was imminent danger of gushing. "The difference between solo work and the strike team," Clint said, "is that on solo I fucked up and got my ass beat, and on strike team I fuck up and get my ass bailed out."

"You didn't fuck up," Ward said, sounding perplexed. "All those missions you ran-"

"I didn't say I didn't do the job," Clint said. "I said I fucked up. It ain't gotta be good, it's just gotta be done."

Ward fell silent after that. Clint really hadn't meant to be a dick or anything; they'd been having an okay conversation before Ward started in on the hero worship. Clint just didn't really know what to say to pick it back up again, and Ward didn't seem like he was going to.

The rest of the night was uneventful, which was pretty much the last thing that Clint wanted. Okay, it was the third-to-last thing Clint wanted, after Davidson making the kill and someone attacking their position, but that didn't mean Clint wanted it. The sun rose, but still they waited, watching Perez's building closely. This was the best possible time to strike. The last attack had happened in the morning, though slightly earlier than it was now. That would put them in a position to fall into a false sense of security, thinking that the danger had passed.

Then again, Ward seemed perfectly on-point, staring intently out the window, so it was also the best possible time to have a nap.

"I'm gonna rest for a sec," Clint said, sitting down and leaning against the wall.

"No problem," Ward said, looking down the barrel of his rifle, and Clint let his head tip back, shutting his eyes.

"Second team, report," Phil's voice said over the comm, and Clint jumped. He blinked blearily at the clock; apparently a 'sec' was about two hours these days.

Being over forty sucked.

"Situation normal, sir," Ward said.

"Any sign of Davidson?" Phil asked.

Clint could see the way Ward hesitated, how much he didn't want to disappoint, how much he wanted things to be better. "Nothing, sir. Not a single movement all night."

"I'm calling it," Phil said. "Get back to base. SHIELD local will handle the situation from here."

"Yes, sir," Ward said.

"You heard the man," Clint said, standing up and stretching.

It didn't take long to break their gear down, and within the hour they were back at the Bus. Ward trudged upstairs, Clint following; May was coming from the opposite direction, and she and Ward just gave each other similar 'I hate this shit' looks and moved on. Something made Clint pause for a moment as May approached. Clint didn't even know what he had to say to her; he just knew that he was frustrated and wanted to start some shit, and if he was gonna start some shit, it was gonna be with her.

He also knew that it was a monumentally stupid idea, but nobody had ever accused Clint of being the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to interpersonal relationships.

In the end, he sighed in annoyance, making a show of walking around her, but May caught him at it, grabbing his arm and pulling him back around before he could get away. "Do we have a problem?"

"You tell me," Clint said, pulling his arm out of her grasp.

"I'm not the bad guy," May snapped. "I'm a person who's doing her job. Any attempt you think I'm making to come between you and Coulson is your imagination, and your jealousy is _not_ my problem. If you want a villain for your story, pick somebody else." With that she turned, walking back the way she'd come, as if Clint was summarily dismissed.

Ward had stopped a few feet away, and he was frowning at the two of them. He turned to follow May as she passed him, saying something to her that Clint couldn't hear; Ward put his hand on the small of May's back, and she knocked it away, not stopping. Ward looked over his shoulder, giving Clint another quizzical look before following her down the hallway.

"Oh," Clint said.

He stood there for a long time, staring after them.

\--

The cat-nap Phil had taken at four-thirty had long since worn off. He and Melinda hadn't had any better luck than Ward and Barton. When the LA team came to relieve them, the agents looked sympathetic, maybe like they wanted to apologize for the way things were going, and Melinda looked like she couldn't decide which one of them to punch in the face first.

Phil thought about letting her; if they hadn't brought coffee, he probably would have.

He was feeling moderately more human by the time the team regrouped at the Bus, but he still had a long, long way to go. Unfortunately, no one looked like they were in a much better state; even Simmons, who could be counted on to be energetic about eighty percent of the time, was deflated and quiet.

"What's our next move?" Ward asked, as they stood in the cargo bay.

"Next target on the list is in Provo," Phil said. "SHIELD support's not great. Our safest bet is to go there and leave the agents here to deal with this threat. They have more resources than we do."

"We have to arrange for supplies before we go _anywhere_ ," Melinda said. "The plane hasn't been restocked in a week, and there are no major SHIELD bases at Davidson's next two stops. I need three hours minimum before we get off the ground."

Phil sighed. "Ward, you go with her." Melinda nodded, and she and Ward started down the ramp.

"What about the rest of us?" Simmons asked.

"You and Fitz check your supplies, and if you need anything, get with Melinda," Phil said. "Skye and Barton-" He shook his head, tired of it all. "Go make friends with the ground crew or buy a candy bar or something. You don't really want to be on the plane while the air conditioner is turned off."

Phil left, walking back up the stairs. He knew he should have found something better to say, something inspirational, should have pretended that he wasn't fucking sick of this. He needed to keep it together for everybody's sake, but he also needed five damn minutes alone.

When he looked back down, Fitzsimmons had already gone into the lab, Skye following them. There was no one but Clint, looking back up at him.

Phil kept walking.

\--

Clint was kind of surprised when Kate picked up the phone; it was entirely possible that it was only because he was calling on a SHIELD burner and not from any number of his that she knew. He was _really_ surprised when she agreed to meet him, even if it had taken more than a little cajoling.

He saw her before she noticed him; she was sitting at a table outside the place they'd agreed on, facing away from him. His heart clenched. Really, it hadn't been all that long since she'd left, but he'd missed her a hell of a lot.

"Hey there," he said, and she turned to look at him.

She pushed her sunglasses up. "You look like hell."

"Are you surprised?" Clint said, and she shrugged. " _Please_ tell me that coffee's for me." He looked around; the table was cut off from the street by a little planter thing, and there was no gate. "Hold on."

He went through the front door, weaving awkwardly through the restaurant before emerging on the right side of the divider. Clint sat down across from her, taking the bowl of coffee when Kate nudged it towards him; it was heavenly after Bus coffee for so long.

"Care to tell me what you're doing in LA?" Kate said.

"Can't," Clint said. "Secret agent stuff."

"Fair enough," she said, letting it go for the moment, but he knew it wouldn't be the last time she asked.

"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner," Clint said sheepishly.

"I wasn't taking your calls," Kate informed him.

"I still should have tried," he said. "Not long after you left, I got recalled to SHIELD. I'm, um." He fiddled with a sugar packet, stalling. "I'm working with Coulson's new team right now."

"And they let you go to come have coffee with me?" she asked.

"I kinda halfway snuck out," Clint admitted.

"If you managed to leave a SHIELD team with your tracer intact, you didn't sneak out," Kate told him. "They let you go."

"Probably," he said. "Either way, I've got some time, and I wanted to talk."

"About what?" Kate asked.

"I don't know how to put this," he said, putting his coffee down. "But I'm pretty sure I suck."

Kate arched an eyebrow at him. "When did you get that idea?"

"Um," Clint said. "Around the time I screwed up my entire life."

"So when was that, like, 1993?" she said.

"Probably before that," he said. "But I mean recently. With you and with pretty much everything else. Things kinda went to shit when Phil died, and I- I probably could have handled it better. People die all the time. You'd think I'd have learned to cope by now. I mean, you weren't around when Bobbi died-" He frowned. "Kinda died. For a while. Anyway, she died _enough_. The point is, if you think all this was bad-" He trailed off.

"Clint," she said, sounding half frustrated and half concerned, which was most people's default state when it came to him. "You can't use that as your excuse. These are your problems. You've known Phil wasn't dead for a while. I know it hit you really hard, but you have to own up to everything you've done, especially now that you have Phil back." Clint winced. "Wait, you're not back together with Phil?" she asked, frowning at him. "After all this?"

"No," Clint said. "I, uh, kinda screwed that one up too."

"Oh my god," Kate said, exasperated. "You do suck."

"I tried?" he offered.

"I know," she said, sighing. "You try really hard. That's why it's hard to stay mad at you."

"You do a pretty good job of it," he told her.

"Other people do much better," Kate said. "Clint, you're a complete fucking asshole who fucks up his personal life at every turn."

"Tell me how you really feel," Clint muttered.

"You're also a good person who genuinely cares, or you wouldn't be worried about it," she told him. "If you want to make things right, you can make things right."

"I was kinda trying to make things right with you, just now," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

"You can't make things right by showing up and telling me you feel sorry for yourself," Kate said. "You have to _do_ something about it."

Clint sighed. "How'd you get to be so much smarter than me, Hawkeye?" he said.

"It wasn't hard," she replied.

"Ouch," he said.

"I call it like I see it, Hawkeye," she told him.

"So how's the California life treating you?" Clint asked.

"Not bad," she said. "Ran into Madame Masque and the police don't like me, but other than that, it suits me."

"We miss you in New York," he said. "That's not a guilt trip, I don't think. Unless it is. You decide."

Kate rolled her eyes. She had a comeback to that, but Clint didn't quite hear it, distracted by a man on the other side of the street. He happened to glance over, looking at Clint as he walked by, but he only got a little further before he broke out into a run.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Clint said. "Not this again."

"What?" Kate said, confused.

"Duty calls," he said, taking a last swig of his coffee and grabbing his backpack before he vaulted over the hedge separating the coffee shop from the street.

"Way to stick me with the check!" Kate yelled behind him, but he was sure she'd understand. Hopefully. Eventually.

"SHIELD 616, this is Barton," Clint said into his comm, as he bolted down the street, unzipping the backpack so he could get to his bow and quiver.

"Barton, this is 616," Phil answered, and he didn't exactly sound pleased. "Where the hell are you?"

"Yeah, sir, hey, I snuck out, long story, Kate says hi," Clint said quickly. "But I'm kinda chasing Davidson right now and I need some help."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I know I said I didn't want to run any more foot races," Clint said. "But I'm on Grandwell headed, uh, north from Bellwether, and I could really use a hand here."

"Stay on him," Phil said. "I'll be there. 616 out."

Clint followed him for a few blocks, weaving in and out of pedestrians who just wouldn't take the hint. You'd think one guy running down the street, sure, you might not see him in time to get out of the way, but if there was another guy running after him? C'mon. Get with the program.

Because it was just Clint's luck, the target ran up to a guy on a motorcycle who was waiting at the next light, and Clint already knew what was coming.

"Aw, motorcycle, no," Clint panted, coming to a halt as Davidson punched the guy, shoved him off, and made off with the bike just before the guy could get up and beat the hell out of him. Clint looking around for something, anything that would keep him from being that idiot chasing a motorcycle on foot.

He was requisitioning running shoes.

Just then, there was a squeal of tires as a familiar Corvette screeched to a halt beside him. "Get in," Phil said, and Clint didn't bother with the door, hopping over it and sliding in. Phil winced a little when Clint landed hard, his bow scratching against the seat.

"Sorry," Clint said, as Phil floored it.

Phil was just as much of a menace on the road as he always had been, only something about this car apparently made it worse. It was a miracle they didn't cause an accident or four; Davidson was weaving in and out of traffic, and Phil followed right behind him. Clint was pretty sure they were actually on the sidewalk most of the time, but he was more concerned with trying to get a bead on the target.

It was no use. Clint was good, but he wasn't good enough to hit a moving target that kept being cut off by a combination of other vehicles and Phil's erratic driving. He could do it eventually, because there would be that moment when it all lined up; he just didn't have time to wait.

"We're never gonna make it in this thing," Clint said, reaching for the door handle. "I have to get to higher ground. Let me out."

"Got it covered," Phil said. He opened a panel in the center console, flipping a switch, and the car started to rise off the street.

"Oh, that is too fucking cool," Clint said.

The car was faster in the air than it was on the ground, but thank god Phil didn't drive worse to compensate. They overtook the target quickly; he had slowed down, seeming to have noticed he wasn't being chased anymore. Clint couldn't fault him for not looking up.

Just when Clint thought he had the shot, Davidson suddenly swerved down an alleyway. "He's not pulling that shit again," Phil said, swinging the car around quickly.

"Still got it," Clint said, lining up his shot. He pulled back, let go, and the arrow was away.

Davidson went down hard, the motorcycle skittering out from under him. His body jolted, convulsing a few times before he went limp.

Phil looked over at Clint, raising an eyebrow. "Fitzsimmons made me stunner arrows," Clint said, grinning. "Cool, huh?"

Phil reached for the flight control. "It's not going to be worth much if we don't get down there and-"

Before he could finish speaking, a SHIELD SUV roared up, and May and Ward were on Davidson in seconds.

"Never mind, then," Phil said, bringing the car back down to the street.

"Containment's five minutes out, sir," Ward shouted, his gun trained on the target.

"Then none of us are moving for the next five minutes," Phil told him. May sunk her knee deeper into Davidson's back, holding his wrists painfully behind him.

They waited.

"This is kind of anticlimactic," Clint said, though he didn't move.

"Shut up, Barton," Phil said; maybe Clint was imagining it, but he thought Phil sounded kind of fond.

\--

"You went through all of that," Fury said in disbelief, "and you caught Davidson because of Barton's dumb luck?"

"Barton made the actual capture," Phil allowed. "But that was after we raided the target's base, discovered his plans, and prevented another attack." He smirked a little. "And in fairness, sir, Lola helped."

Fury shook his head. "Mop up there and return to HQ."

"Sir, if I could make a request?" Phil said. Fury cocked his eyebrow. "The team needs a break. This has really taken it out of everyone, and they're not at their best. Maybe a little sun wouldn't be bad for them."

"Unless something comes up, you can have seventy-two hours," Fury said. He pointed a finger at Phil. "If you're resting, you're resting. You need a break too, so I better not catch you working."

"Thank you, sir," Phil said. "We'll be back soon."

"Did he go for it?" Melinda asked, as Phil came out of the command center and into the lounge.

Phil pulled his tie off and tossed it onto the bar. "Yep."

"Thank god," she said, sighing heavily.

"When's the last time you slept?" Phil asked, eying her suspiciously.

"I have no idea," Melinda said. "Tell Skye to book us somewhere _quiet_."

\--

Clint looked at the beer in his glass, debating the merits of having another. SHIELD had interrupted his drinking when this whole thing started; maybe they owed him one.

He was pretty sure he'd be drinking alone, either way. Fitz and Simmons had left, talking excitedly about someone or something scientific that they absolutely had to see; they'd done that talking each over thing, so Clint hadn't really understood. May had already gone to her room, and Ward did an unconvincing bit of "Don't mind me, just going to the ice machine," and joined her. If Clint knew Phil at all, then Phil was in his room with a room service hamburger watching mindless TV, which Clint didn't blame him for in the least.

Someone slid onto the barstool beside him, and Clint realized he'd left one person out. "I'll have a rum and coke, please," Skye said, preemptively holding out her ID to the bartender.

"You got it," the bartender said, handing back Skye's ID and going off to make her drink.

"You kicked ass today, from what I hear," Skye said, sounding suitably impressed.

"Oh, I dunno," Clint said. "Maybe a little. It was mostly the flying car."

"Thanks," Skye said, as the bartender put down her drink. "That's just Lola. She's fine, but she's just a car. Only as good as her passengers."

"You did hear the part where it flies, right?" Clint said.

"That's probably the least weird thing around here," she said. "It's a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world."

"Except for Lola?" Clint said, snorting in amusement. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"

"Oh, I say it all the time," Skye told him, grinning. "So, when are you and Coulson gonna get back together?"

Clint only stopped himself from spewing his beer all over the bar by slapping his hand over his mouth at the last second. "What- how-"

"He didn't say anything," Skye said. "I can read between the lines. It was kinda obvious."

Clint wondered if he should deny it, pretend he had no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed kind of insulting and counterproductive. "I don't know if it's a good idea," he said.

"C'mon," Skye said. "You're both moping over each other every time you have a chance to sit down."

"I'm not moping," he argued, even though he probably was.

Skye gave him a look. "You're moping," she said. "What you need to do is get up and go to Coulson's room. Anything that happens after that is up to you and him. I'm not gonna make you a schedule."

Clint shook his head. "I don't think-"

"You want an excuse to do it?" Skye said; Clint probably should have protested, but to be perfectly honest, it was exactly what he needed. "If you don't go, you're paying for my drinks. If it doesn't work out, I'll pay for _your_ drinks, because you'll need it."

"That's a pretty flimsy excuse," Clint said.

"I didn't say I had a _good_ excuse," Skye said. "What's it gonna be?"

Clint took a breath, considering his options. "You're on," he said, taking out his wallet and tossing a few bills onto the bar.

Skye grinned at him. "Go get 'em."

Clint would have liked to say that he drew himself up and confidently marched to Phil's room. In actuality, he went and freaked out in the bathroom for a while, spent too much time trying to make his hair behave, then finally forced himself to go.

Clint almost turned back when he got there. The Do Not Disturb sign was on the knob, and, as Clint had suspected, there was a room service tray sitting on the floor beside the door. Phil was in there having a peaceful evening. He was finally getting to relax. Clint had no right to go barging in and stressing him out.

He shut his eyes and knocked.

Phil answered the door fast enough that Clint knew he'd been waiting, already aware that someone was standing at his door. He didn't look as much like he wanted to kill Clint as Clint expected, but he also didn't look like he particularly wanted to deal with him.

"I need you for a minute," Clint said; he didn't realize what that sounded like until the words had already left his mouth.

"Barton," Phil said coldly. "I don't care about your adrenaline rush or your need for stress relief. If that's what you want, then go."

"It's not like that," Clint said. "Will you just- just let me come in, okay? I need to talk to you."

Phil didn't look like he wanted to, but finally he let Clint in and sat down at the edge of the bed. "So talk."

"I have to say this now, because I don't think I'm gonna get another chance," Clint said, the door shutting behind him. "Soon, we're gonna be back on the Bus, and you're gonna take me back to New York, and that's gonna be the end of it." Phil opened his mouth, but Clint held up a hand. "Please, just let me talk for a minute." Phil gestured for him to continue. "I'm pretty sure I've done everything wrong since you, y'know, came back from the dead and all. I should have tried to contact you, I shouldn't have given up, _you_ shouldn't have accused me of being a slut- you did, you _totally_ did, shut up- but I shouldn't have tried to blame anything I did on you being gone, because it wasn't your fault. It was mine. So, um." He opened his hands. "This is me admitting that, and hoping you'll forgive me."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At least, Clint was uncomfortable; Phil was just kinda sitting there.

"I'll just go," Clint said.

He was almost to the door before Phil spoke. "Wait."

Clint turned back around. "Yeah?"

"You can't say something like that and just leave," Phil said.

"You can't listen to something like that and just _sit there_ ," Clint retorted.

"Give me a minute," Phil said. "It's a lot to process." He sighed. "I didn't exactly do the right thing either." Clint made himself calm down and not mouth off, which took some doing. "You were already with someone else when I came back," he said. "I thought- I felt like I hadn't meant anything to you. I thought it just proved why you shouldn't get involved with a SHIELD agent, because even if we broke up, I couldn't break up with SHIELD."

"Tell me about it," Clint said, sighing.

"I decided it was safer if I forgot about the whole thing and focused on my job," Phil said. "And then you were here, and I realized how much I missed you." He shrugged. "And then I got pissed off because I thought you were sleeping with Skye."

"Yeah, I probably could have handled that one a little better," Clint said, wincing.

"We fucked it up pretty bad, didn't we?" Phil said.

Clint took a chance, going to sit next to him. "I was kinda wondering if you wanted to unfuck it," he said. He took Phil's hand, twining their fingers together. "I miss you so much, Phil. I have ever since- since Loki."

"I missed you too," Phil said. He sighed heavily. "I hate that it took all of this to-" He let the sentence hang, but Clint knew what he meant.

"Next time, just call me," Clint said; he'd meant to be flippant, but somehow it had come out as plaintive instead.

They just sat there for a long while, quiet, settling, and it was ridiculous how much Clint had missed this, just doing nothing, just being next to each other.

"We should probably have a long conversation about our goals and desires and what we want out of this," Clint said eventually, looking down at their hands. He looked up at Phil, hoping he didn't look as pathetically hopeful as he thought he might. "But I don't actually have anything to say right now past what I already said, and it kinda feels like a waste of being alone together in a hotel room on vacation."

There was a long pause. "Screw it, we can talk any time," Phil said. "That's why god invented email."

"Knew you'd see it my way," Clint said, grinning as Phil let his hand go and stood up. He walked away, and Clint wondered what the hell for a second; he ended up with blankets on his head as Phil grabbed the covers and threw them off.

"You don't know where that's been," Phil said, as Clint freed himself, standing up and joining Phil.

"I don't know where these clothes have been," Clint said, plucking at Phil's shirt sleeve.

"Guess I better get rid of them, then," Phil said, stepping closer and putting his hands on Clint's waist.

"It's the only way to be sure," Clint agreed, reaching for the hem of Phil's t-shirt and pulling it off over his head. That was as far as they got for the moment, though, because Phil dragged him in and kissed him hard, like he was unable to stand it for another second. 

Clint knew _exactly_ how he felt.

It was an exaggeration to say that Phil yanked Clint's clothes off, threw him down on the bed, and jumped on him, but only a little bit of one. It suited Clint just fine; later they could have slow, soulful sex that expressed how much they loved and missed each other and all that shit, but right now all Clint wanted was as much as possible, as fast as possible.

Phil seemed pretty intent on giving Clint everything he wanted. He pinned Clint to the bed, biting at his neck, and Clint moaned as Phil started to rock his hips, their cocks sliding against each other. There was so much they could be doing, no end of sex they could be having, but right now there was nothing but this, nothing else that he needed; all he needed was him and Phil and friction, and they'd do pretty well for themselves.

At any other time it probably would have been embarrassing, how fast he was ready, how short a time he lasted. This counted as a special case, though, and as long as Phil was right there with him, just as desperate and greedy as he was, then it was perfect.

"Oh god, Phil," Clint gasped. "Please, _please_ , come on and do it with me, god, please, Phil-"

"Yeah," Phil said, against the skin of Clint's neck. "Clint, _Clint_ -"

Clint moaned as he came, shaking, clutching at Phil's arms. He couldn't stop looking at Phil's face, staring into his eyes; Phil looked lost, overwhelmed, almost surprised as it hit him, and Clint watched the whole thing be wiped out by satisfaction, his eyelids fluttering shut.

Clint pulled him down, kissing him softly as they leveled out, holding him for as long as he could. He did eventually have to admit that having a full-grown man laying fully on top of him wasn't that comfortable, thogh, and he gently but firmly rolled Phil off of him.

Phil collapsed onto the mattress, boneless. "Jesus Christ," he panted.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Clint replied, moving closer so that he could rest his head on Phil's shoulder.

"I guess we don't have to worry about that being different," Phil said.

"Nope," Clint said. "Just like I remember, only maybe a little faster."

"No complaints here," Phil said.

"Here either," Clint replied. He yawned, rolling over and putting his arm around Phil's waist. "We can work on slow."

Phil kissed him. "All night long, as a matter of fact."

"Mmm," Clint said, pulling him closer. "Now that is the best thing I've heard all week."

\--

The sunlight was streaming in when Phil blinked awake, as if the curtains meant nothing to it at all. He had no idea what time it was; the alarm clock was turned the wrong direction, and moving the slightest inch would mean dislodging Clint, who was still sleeping peacefully, his head on Phil's chest.

Phil had thought he'd never experience a moment like this ever again. He wasn't about to do a single thing to endanger it.

Instead he ran his fingers through Clint's thick, coarse hair; it was a strange detail, but he'd missed the feel of it, the way it felt brushing against his hand, the texture of the short, stubbly part at the back of his neck. He'd gone so long without it, but it still felt familiar, comforting, just like he remembered, even though everything had changed so much.

Clint made a pleased noise, snuggling in closer to Phil; Phil knew he was awake, but he didn't call him on it. If he wanted to just lie there and enjoy it, then Phil wasn't going to stop him.

Clint finally opened his eyes, smiling at Phil sleepily. "Hey," he said hoarsely.

"Hey," Phil said, cupping the back of Clint's neck, and Clint leaned into his touch. Phil was pretty sure he'd be purring if he could, and it was everything Phil wanted for him.

Clint shifted, stretching up so he could kiss Phil, slow and calm, not going anywhere, just enjoying. Phil ran his fingers along Clint's spine, down and up, just to make Clint shiver and press against him.

"We have the whole day," Phil said, when they finally parted. "What do you want to do?"

"I talked to Kate again," Clint told him, wrapping his arm around Phil's stomach and nuzzling his neck. "We were talking about hanging out for a while, since we were, y'know, rudely interrupted. She said she wants you to come too."

"Sounds good," Phil said. Generally speaking, it was better to just do what Kate wanted. If he didn't, there was a distinct possibility that she'd just come to the hotel and drag him away by his ear. "We should go somewhere where Lucky can run around and cause trouble."

"You make the best plans," Clint said. Before Phil knew what was happening, Clint was straddling his thighs, grinding against him, and Phil groaned. "First things first."

There was a knock on the door; Phil tried to sit up, but Clint pushed him back down, which honestly Phil didn't have too many problems with.

"Hey, AC," Skye said through the door. "We're going out to brunch, wanna tag along?"

"Go away," Clint called back, descending on Phil again and biting at his ear.

There was a conversation in the hallway. "Um, alright then," Simmons said. "I suppose we'll see you later."

Phil stretched his neck out, letting Clint kiss and suck his way down to Phil's shoulder. A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Clint," he said. "This is my room."

Clint looked up at him. "Oops?"

Phil laughed. "Fuck it," he said, pulling Clint up to kiss him again.

\--

"How was your trip?" Natasha asked, checking her pistols.

"Exhausting," Clint said. He could have sworn SHIELD still owed him more vacation, but here he was in New York at HQ, ready to face certain danger for the umpteenth time.

Honestly, he kind of preferred it, but he had to make sure Fury and Hill never found that out.

"Ready to join Coulson's team now?" Natasha said.

"Are you kidding me?" Clint said, with a laugh. "You know how much I hate groupwork."

"So you hate working with me?" she said, smirking. "I'm deeply offended."

"That's teamwork," Clint told her, bending down to tie his bootlaces. "Completely different issue."

"Haven't seen you in a while," Natasha said to someone that Clint couldn't see.

"I've been a little busy," Phil replied, and Clint stood up. Phil was waiting there, folder in one hand and coffee cup in the other. "Barton," he said in greeting, smiling a mild, vaguely pleasant smile, one with a world of things behind it, things only for Clint.

Clint thought about jumping him in the middle of the ready room, but he decided it was a bad idea. Not the most subtle thing in the world to do.

Phil held out the folder. "I was on my way by, so they appointed me to play messenger." As he passed Clint the folder, their fingers brushed together; in order for that to happen, they had to execute what was probably the most awkward folder pass in history, but whatever. It was worth it.

"Don't tell me you're grounded, after they spent all that effort repairing that plane of yours," Natasha said.

Phil winced. "You heard about that?"

"Director Fury was a little vocal about the bar," she told him.

"He fixates," Phil said dismissively. "We're just here for the afternoon, then it's back out again." He shrugged. "It's possible we'll be back for a day or two at the end of next week."

"We'll be back whenever we get back," Clint said. "You know how it is."

"I do," Phil said, but he was still smiling. "Good luck."

"You, too," Clint replied, and one look at Natasha's face told him exactly what they sounded like.

Phil didn't say anything more, just smiled again and left. Natasha shook her head and went back to her gear, and after a moment, Clint did too, making his final preparations.

"So looks like that worked out for you," Natasha said.

"Yup," Clint said, slinging his quiver over his shoulder. "And I even got see my dog."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for Change All My Plans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666592) by [kultiras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kultiras/pseuds/kultiras)




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